


Stones and Tears

by FitzEtLeFou



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Drama & Romance, Everything Hurts, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Romance, Sex, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26838358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FitzEtLeFou/pseuds/FitzEtLeFou
Summary: The war did not end with Voldemort’s death. For these one-day teenage soldiers who fought against him, it is a gaping wound that time does not close.Hermione Granger/George Weasley; completed.
Relationships: Angelina Johnson/George Weasley, Hermione Granger/George Weasley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. Stones

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pierres et Larmes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23173738) by [FitzEtLeFou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FitzEtLeFou/pseuds/FitzEtLeFou). 



> This is the translation of « Pierre et Larmes », originally written in French. English is not my first language and I have no beta reader. I’m sorry if the translation looks shabby from times to times! You can points any mistakes in the comments!

Hermione look at the room and sigh: “Come on girl, you need to get on with it now!”. Dirty dishes and books are scattered on the hardwood floors. Dust bunnies are swarming under the faded old couch. Hermione herself doesn’t look so great: her t-shirt – the same for the last four days – is covered with weird stains; her pajama pants are a pre-war relic; her last shower was last week. McGonagall had to insist with utmost vigor before Hermione agreed to see her. After the fifth letter dropped on her knees by an old owl, the young witch had given in. But two hours before the meeting her appartment still look like a ruin. 

A new heavy sigh greets the obvious: she has to clean. Hermione picks up a stray hairtie on a side table and tie her mane in a loose bun. That will do for now. First cleaning, then a shower. Moving slowly, she picks up the dishes. On the mantelpiece, an old glass of milk reeks. In front of the fireplace, the dark wood of the coffee table is hidden by tea-stained mugs. Everywhere else pizza boxes are lying next to empty beer cans. The couch cushions felled on the floor a long time ago but Hermione doesn’t care. As long has she has a place to crash when she comes back plastered from Grimmaurd Place… Hermione levitates litter and dishes to the kitchen. She's trying really hard not to think about her friends, nor about the days to come, just to avoid breaking down.  
“No Crooks, get the hell out of here! Fuck!” The language is accentuated by the sound of porcelain hitting the floor and the cat hissing. The beast runs away to hide.  
Standing in the doorway, surrounded by broken plates, Hermione burst into tears. She tries to hold it but to no avail. Tears turns into deep sobs as she crashes onto the floor. Her feet and hands are bleeding but nothing matters. She’s in pain, so much pain. If only everything could stop, if only her heart could stop making her suffer so much. The war did not end with Voldemort’s death. For these one-day teenage soldiers who fought against him, it is a gaping wound that time does not close.

Minerva McGonagall emerges from the fireplace in a cloud of soot. Cleaning the chimney, another task Hermione forever postponed. The old lady assesses the mess in a flash. In three steps she is next to the young women, kneeling to her level. Without saying a word, she pulls her into a firm hug. Hermione fights back, tears and snot running on her face : “No! Let me go, let me go… I don’t wanna… It’s not fair!”. Her voice breaks but Minerva still holds her tight, until Hermione finally is finally letting go.

The teacher helps her former pupil back on her feet. Gently, she slides an arm under her armpit to support her and guides her to the bathroom. It’s the third time in six month that Minerva finds her in that state, each time worse than the previous one.  
Hermione calms slowly. The older witch propped her on the edge of the bathtub and cast a spell to heal her cuts. 

“Hermione, you need help.”

Her words are calm but firm. They meets the closed face of Hermione who begins to bite her nails.

“Nobody can help me” grumbles the younger one “they’re all as fucked up as I am. Even you, you’re knackered! Have you seen your face?”

With a deep sigh, Minerva lowers the toilet lid and sit on it. It is true, she’s exhausted. Everything about her appearance shows it. Grey streaks hang softly from her bun. Her green cardigan is soiled with blood and snot on the shoulder. Deep dark circles are framing her blue eyes. Her mouth is so pinched that her lips only draw a thin line. She must have lost at least five kilos since last year and she had not a lot of weight to begin with. 

“Listen Hermione, you have to do something. Harry and Ron are another problem but I know that you have the resources to get out of this state. You came to the two years memorial ceremony last month. People are remembering you and appreciate your efforts.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow. The old witch pinches the bridge of her nose and sigh. Again.

“As you so delicately point out, my health is not in good shape. I am not getting any younger and this year was especially rough. I cannot be Headmistress alone anymore.”

A ray of sunshine comes to sweep over the speckled tile and underlines the pallor of the two women. The war has exhausted them, washed them out. They are among the few still standing. Minerva is fiddling with the hem of her chocolate-colored skirt, looking for her words.

“I… I need help too. With Hogwarts. I can't do it even with a small class size and I know that even more students will choose to come back next year. Hermione, I have come to ask you to become my assistant, to eventually take over.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione chooses a path. 
> 
> TW : verbal violence, alcoolism, PTSD

“Hermione, I have come to ask you to become my assistant, to eventually take over.” Hermione marks a time out. Minerva doesn't take her eyes off her. It's a risky plan given the young woman's shaky mental health, but the director can't get out of it. Time and war have ravaged her body. Too many spells cast, too many spells received. Few know it, but under the long skirts and severe cardigans, the scars are numerous. It is time to make way for the new generation, so as not to die in office.

“Why me? Why not Neville or Ginny? Or even Molly, she’s used to taking care of children.”

“Because you know the school perfectly. Neville hates responsibility, Ginny is trying hard to manage Harry and Molly... you know I can't ask her to come and work where Fred died.”

“Minerva, I can’t. Look at me, how many times have you picked me up? At least three! Not to mention the times when no one was there to pick me up. I can't take a shower a day, so running a school...”

Hermione pulls on her soiled t-shirt. She suddenly appears very small, far from the war heroine whose merits are praised by the press. What would readers of the Prophet say if they saw her? Minerva stands up and puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Exactly. Come to the castle, there will be people to watch over you, things to do to motivate you. Hermione... You are intelligent, I know you are aware of your condition. Let Hogwarts help you get stronger.”

Tears rise in the eyes of the two women. The older one turns away and adds:

\- I am leaving. Shower, eat a little, discuss it with whoever you want. I'll come back on Friday to find out your answer.

Minerva's footsteps weaken and then vanish in the whisper of the Floo. Hermione, in a state of shock, knows deep down that the director has just offered her a way out. A way out of this vicious circle of cold pizza and repeated hangovers. A wind of motivation is reborn. Hermione leaps to her feet, sends flying her top and pants over the edge of the bathtub. She opens the faucet in one go and slips under it without waiting for the water to heat up. The cold jet makes her shiver violently but clears her head. Working at Hogwarts, why not? It's not as if she's expected elsewhere. Her parents are in Australia, don't know she exists anymore. Harry and Ron don't leave the old Black house anymore. Ginny spends her time between her broken family and her war-ravaged boyfriend. Neville, Luna, Cho, all the others are too afraid to contact her again. They all want to move on with their lives and forget the months of terror, blood and death.

Hermione gets out of the shower, puts on a bathrobe and begins her preparations. With a lot of household spells and a bit of elbow grease, her small apartment is tidy. The laundry dries in the bathroom, the garbage cans are full and ready to be taken out. For the first time, the young woman realizes the effects on her body caused by the recent excesses. Her muscles have melted, her cheeks have deepened and she is forced to turn her closet upside down in search of a belt.

"What have I become? " Hermione no longer recognizes the face that the mirror reflects back to her. She needs to talk to Ron and Harry, to tell them she's leaving. And then, there must be some boxes left in the second bedroom...With her mind spinning again, she puts on a jacket, grabs her keys and leaves the house for the first time in four days.

She didn't realize it, but between Minerva's visit and her household frenzy, the day passed. Outside, dusk dews the streets. The weather is still good, and passers-by are enjoying the mild June weather. How long has it been since she went out just for fun? A wave of shame reaches Hermione: she doesn't remember. Five minutes of walking make the trees of the Square Grimmaurd appear. Two kids chase each other under the amused reprimands of their mother. Hermione watches them pass by with a twinge of sadness. Childhood, moments of innocence... The list of things that the war has taken away does not stop. Chasing away bad thoughts, the witch takes out her wand and gently taps it against the bricks. Number 12 appears, along with snippets of music and laughter.

Hermione pushes the heavy wooden door and enters the house. Harry and Ron moved in just after the endless series of funerals. In an effort to take their minds off the situation, they set about renovating the old building. Without success. Every dusty corner reminded them of the Order, of Fred, Lupin, Sirius and all those "fallen for freedom," as the Department's new monument proclaims. "Hermioooooone, you're here! Hey Harry, she's here! Come have a drink with us! " Ron, hilarious, stumbles across the living room to Hermione. The room is in a disastrous state. Hermione frowns at the state of her companions.

“Are you already drinking? It's barely 9pm!”

Harry is slumped in the armchair by the window, cigarette in one hand and a bottle of potion in the other. Not the first, judging by the empty vials scattered on the sticky floor.

“It's okay 'Mione, we're at the aperitif! Come taste this, new find of Dingus, you drink and poof! It's all flying away!”

His sneer is interrupted by a painful coughing fit. Hermione slaloms between empty bottles and cigarette butts to come and kneel down beside him. Minerva picks up Hermione, Hermione picks up Harry, who picks up no one. Such is the cycle of their new life.

\- It's okay, I got it.

Harry doesn't got it under control. His breath is wheezing, his eyes are red, his complexion is gray. He's shaved and wearing clean clothes, proof that Ginny payed a visit during the day. Ron comes to put a heavy hand on Hermione's shoulder, both affectionately and because he can't stand up straight.

“’Mione. I sentence you to three shots. You're late, you haven't been here since soooo long! And then later, if y'know what I mean, we could...”

An evocative eyebrow twitch completes the sentence. Hermione grabs a beer and sits on the windowsill. She doesn't know what to do, not what to say. It's hard to blame them for their behaviour when she herself has participated more than rightly in these bacchanals. But Minerva's proposal makes her see things in a new light. The living room is dingy, the wallpaper yellowed by nicotine. The floor hasn't been washed since Merlin knows when. Corpses of bottles litter the whole house. Two living corpses live in it: Harry and Ron. The latter appreciates less and less the silence of their friend.

“Just don't just stand there and say nothing! It looks like you when you were a kid, there, judging us from afar.”

“I'm not judging you, Ron.”

Hermione chooses her words carefully, so as not to trigger a new anger. She runs one hand over her face, and adds:

“I'm leaving. I don't know how to tell you this, but just... I'm out of here. Minerva has offered me a position at Hogwarts. I'm going crazy doing nothing at home and it's no better here, I don't know what to do anymore...  
The tears, treacherous, run from the first words of her tirade. Harry pales, as if it were possible to look even sicker, black hair streaked with gray against alabaster skin. Ron is silent, his little bright eyes crinkle, a sign of the storm to come.”

“What d’you mean “leaving”? Y’think you’re better than us, right?”

Red patches appear on Ron's pouty face. If Hermione has lost weight, he gained a lot of weight with alcohol. Hermione looks at his shoes, says nothing more. Where a year ago she would have tried to reason with him, she has now given up. She knows it's no longer any use. Alcoholics never listen to reason.

“You're leaving us, aren't you? This is to punish me for leaving in the forest I knew it, you never got over it! You don't give a shit about us, you don't love us, you just want us to die! Well old girl, get ready! We're heroes, we'll die together! You'll be alone, without your parents that you Obliviate all alone, without your friends, because you never had any!”

The monologue ends in a rain of sputtering. Hermione still cries, but silently. The big sobs are reserved for her solitude. Ron breathes heavily, now completely crimson. He drops heavily on the wet floor next to Harry.

“Look, look what you’ve done to him! It's all right Harry, I'm not leaving, I'm not leaving anymore.”

The rest is lost in his drunken mumbling. Hermione makes a gesture towards her friends, but gives up. Harry is curled up in the armchair, swings back and forth deliriously: "Not the forest, Mommy help me, Sirius help me...". ». The young witch rests her beer not even opened and leaves this ghostly house. In the street, the tears redouble in intensity.

Even the living are now "fallen for freedom".


	3. Hogwarts

And just like that, Hermione was gone. Her possessions gathered in a suitcase with a strong Reducto, Crookshanks shoved into his transport crate, she sailed off. After the Square Grimmaurd fiasco, the young woman had deliberately chosen to think only of her departure. Her apartment had been scrubbed, tidied up, ready for a possible return.

"Hermione, darling, it's good to see you again!" 

Rosmerta's warm voice pulls Hermione out of the blur caused by Apparating. Not enough training: her head is spinning and her vision is blurred. 

"You don't look so good! Sit down, there's no hurry, I'll tell Minerva.” 

The buxom witch abandons Hermione, who carefully sits down on a chair. Rosmerta's pub has grown, she now runs a hotel on the upper floors and a reserved room is used as an Apparation point. Little by little, the young witch's vision becomes clear again. Crookshanks meows continuously, frustrated that he can't go out.

“It's okay big boy, we're almost there, you'll be able to stretch your legs and hunt big mice!”

“It is true that it is not what it misses, they made nests everywhere.”

Hermione is violently startled: she didn't hear the newcomer. Her gaze goes from sturdy leather boots to stained jeans, flies over a midnight blue shirt and stops on a thin face, studded with freckles, framed by long red hair. Georges Weasley gives her a forced smile.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. Minnie sent me to pick you up, she was worried about your luggage. Obviously it's not a problem.”

Hermione shakes her head, her long brown curls whipping her face.

“But what are you doing here? I thought you were at the Burrow or at the shop, or... or I don't know, but certainly not here!”

His voice goes into the treble. Why is George in Hogsmeade? Hermione has no idea it takes her by surprise. Hogwarts was supposed to be a new beginning, far from the memories of war! Meeting a Weasley as soon as he arrived was not part of her plans. She threw herself on her nails already bitten to the blood, attacking the cuticles. George doesn't seem to be aware of the trouble it causes. On the other hand, he doesn't seem to be conscious at all. No one has seen him laugh or even smile sincerely since Fred's death. George shrugs his shoulders, insensitive to Hermione's inner monologue.

“Help with repairs. Everything is far from being renovated, I agreed to do it this summer. Shall we go? Sorry, but I don't have all day.”

Still that forced smile, barely a crease in the corners. The walk to the castle is done in an icy silence. Minerva's welcome is no warmer. The students left a fortnight ago, but a mountain of work still weighs on the director's shoulders. George guides Hermione to her apartments, a studio in the dungeons. Great. No natural light, a strong smell of mortar and the unpleasant tingling of the overflow of magic.

“There it is. This is... where Snape lived.”

An angel passes by. Decidedly, nothing will be easy here. Memories assail Hermione, but she pushes the vision of the blood-covered man back into the back of her head. The young woman clings to the first thing that crosses her mind:

“It's perfect, thank you. Do you... Do you want to come over tonight? I'll settle down, but how about a drink? I think we're the only ones under 60 here, I mean, aside from the ghosts.”

The angel returns. George looks at her with a surprised look. Hermione is just as surprised. But what has gotten into her? Distracting herself, yes, but not by hanging around with yet another soul in pain! And talking about ghosts! After so many deaths! The answer is irrefutable.

“No. You may be in the mood for it, hanging out with Ron and Harry, but I'm not. I've got work to do and so will you soon. Minnie's counting on you, don't let her down.”

Her face darkened, making it look more like her younger brother's alcoholic tantrums. Hermione is speechless with shame, red spreading to her cheeks. She is mortified.

“Sorry, I don't know why I said that! See you tomorrow?”

“I don't think so, I'm redoing the Ravenclaw tower tomorrow. They slept in the Room of Requirement all last year so we owe them that.”

George's jaw is tight, bringing out the lines on his face. It looks like he hasn't just lost weight but also gained muscle from working at Hogwarts. The reconstruction of the estate may have been based on magic, but it would have been an illusion to believe that one should not get one's hands directly dirty. The young man's hands are full of calluses, Hermione notes. After a farewell, she slams the door and lets herself slide on the floor. She doesn't cry, she's too stunned. The influx of memories is worse than expected. And she'll have to find another avoidance strategy, because offering drinks, even without ulterior motives, would only serve to send her back into the spiral from which she is so desperately trying to escape.

Hermione lets the cat out and explores her apartment. The tour is quickly done: a main room with a kitchenette, a fireplace, a high-backed armchair that has seen better days, a dark desk with matching chair. In the bedroom, a double bed and a wobbly chest of drawers accentuate the destitution of the room. The bathroom has been recently redone: shower, sink, toilet, that's it. The walls are white, the parquet floor freshly varnished. Impersonal at will.  
The young witch rolls up her sleeves, pulls out her wand and begins to settle in her new home. And above all to chase George Weasley out of her thoughts.


	4. Lake

Hermione approaches her wand to her temple. The slight tremor of her hand betrays her nervousness. She pulls. A silvery net floats for a moment, then she deposits it in a vial. Her sigh of relief expresses all the accumulated tension. Crookshanks joins her under the covers, intrigued by the unusual time. 

"I woke you up, big boy? Sorry, I didn't mean to. Another nightmare. But this time I'll be able to go back to sleep."

////

The young witch has been back at Hogwarts for more than three weeks. Her days are devoured by a mountain of paperwork; her nights swallowed up by bad dreams. She often doze off at lunchtime under the half-reproving, half-worried gaze of the director. As she climbs the spiral staircase up to her mentor's office, Hermione dreams only of the moment when she will be able to fall asleep in an empty classroom.

“Minerva! I have finished preparing the registration forms, you just have to sign them and we can send them off.”

The old lady lifts her head from the scroll she is taking care of. The old inlaid desk is crumbling under the files. An inkwell floats near her head, a pile of ashes on the floor testifies to the fate of the correspondence being processed. Minerva indicates with a movement of her quill the only free seat in the room.

“Thank you” Minerva begins, “but we are far from finished.”

With a wave of her wand, she pulls out a to-do list that must be half a meter long. Hermione refrains from grinding her teeth. It's her job, she's paid for it, it keeps her busy, there's no way she can get out of it. The guilt, insidious, points to the tip of her nose at the slightest sign of annoyance. The other witch hasn't noticed anything, and goes on to put her glasses back on with her fingertips.

“The renovations are progressing well, I think. I haven't checked in since you arrived, I'm afraid! George Weasley manages the volunteer team, he sent me a memo yesterday.”

Hermione tenses. She hasn't forgotten their uneasy exchange. Minerva rummages through the mass of papers, finds the memo and goes on without wasting any time.

“Ah yes, that's it. He wanted to see me to agree on a schedule for the next step. Some parts of the castle are too damaged, we need specialists. Ah and we need to call the Aurors, they found latent spells from the war in several rooms. Anyway, as you can see I don't have time to deal with them. Go see George and his team, list what they need and do what is necessary. Thank you, I had nothing else to discuss with you.”

The director goes back to her work without adding a word. Hermione turns her heels, after a mumbling that was as much a "Thank you" as it was a It's never going to stop!". No wonder Minerva looks like an Inferi No wonder Minerva looks like an Inferno with so much work! The nap will have to wait.

Hermione walks up the corridors with a brisk pace, her satchel beating her hip. No way to get a hold of Georges! If only she had the Marauder's Map, it would be another story. In the meantime, she gallops from corridors to gardens to find him or one of his foolish volunteers. Her patience, already thin, diminishes with each step. By the time Hermione reaches the lakeshore, she is already furious. The music and laughter she hears does not calm her down, far from it. She doesn't realize her intrusion until it's too late.

"Oops!"Angelina removes her hand from George's bare chest with a giggle. 

She wears nothing but shorts and a bra that only reveals what it is supposed to hide. George is in his underwear, soaking wet from head to toe. Hermione swallows violently.

”Intimacy, Granger, ever heard of it?”

His angry look doesn't take anything away from the perfection of his body. He is thin, but definitely muscular. The muscles of his hips form a V that plunges under the elastic of his underwear. Angelina dries her hair with a cheeky smile, without taking the time to get dressed. Hermione is on the verge of apoplexy. It's been almost a year since she slept with someone. A drunken one-night stand with Ron. And he cried at the end.

In front of the couple's mannequin silhouettes, the warmth of her cheeks reached her lower abdomen. But not to the point of forgetting his repartee, or his mission.

“You are in a public place, as far as I know. Is it possible to get a minute of your precious time "Weasley"? Far be it from me to want to stop you from repopulating the wizarding world, but Minerva sent me to talk about renovations. Quickly, if possible.”

Angelina bursts out laughing. She is sumptuous, it is indisputable. The sun reflects on her perfect skin. Not a hair on her legs or armpits. Not a pimple. Hermione hasn't cared about this kind of thing for a long time, but in her eternal faded jeans and oversized T-shirt, she feels ridiculous. Lack of sleep has taken its toll. Her oily hair is held in a braid that is more practical than pretty.

“Relax Hermione! We just took a dip, that's all. There's nothing wrong with that as far as I know. You should come and have a drink with us tonight by the way, there will be everyone there!”

Hermione is outraged as much by her beauty as by her kindness. A not so irrational jealousy seizes her while George sketches one of his rare smiles.

“No thanks. I have work to do that can't wait. George, send me a message with your availability, preferably tonight. I have much to do.”

The young witch almost runs away, pursued by the crystalline laughter of Angelina Johnson.

///

“And there, with the same head as McGonagall, yes, I swear Katie, with the same little pinched look, she left faster than a Niffler who saw a Gallion! "

The story is greeted with the roar of laughter from the entire Hogwarts volunteer renovation team. Angelina has already told the story at least three times, much to the displeasure of George Weasley. He would like to keep it private. And above all, not to have to deal with Hermione's "little pinched look", which he knows all too well.

Pushing back his chair, he avoids the drinkers to go and ask Rosmerta for a quill and a piece of parchment. Might as well take care of it immediately.


	5. Regrets

Standing in front of the gates, Hermione watches Minerva take a few steps and then Apparate. For the first time in almost three years, the director took a two-week vacation in her native Scotland. Hermione is now alone to run Hogwarts. The bulk of the administrative work was completed last week: the bookkeeping was done, the supply lists drawn up, the teachers found, their contracts signed.

The cheerful team of volunteers was sent home after a memorable party, which saw far too many drunken young people slaughtering popular songs. Hermione had come for a drink, but didn't stay long. Everyone was flirting with everyone in the stifling August atmosphere. Everybody except Hermione. She sat quietly in her chair and was ignored by the rest of the tribe. Disgusted, she had finally left, sober and with tears in her eyes.  
This unpleasant memory had ended up in a vial, another one, in this wooden box that was already overflowing.

///

“Hermione!”

Ginny Weasley waves from a table near the bar. Hermione hugs her with pleasure. With a twinge in her heart, she realizes that she can't remember the last time they saw each other. But the alarmist message received the day before had changed the situation and imposed a meeting.

“I'm glad to see you!" exclaims Hermione, "Your message really scared me. What happened?”

Ginny casts a quick spell of silence as she sweeps across the room. The Three Broomsticks are almost deserted during the summer, but the information exchanged must remain secret.

“How long has it been since you've heard from Harry and Ron?”

Hermione immediately faces the accusing tone of the redhead.

“Look, I've had a lot of work, the administration is a living hell and I...”

“It doesn't matter. I won't be long, I'm just here to bring you up to date.”

Hermione takes a closer look at her friend. Her face is closed, her arms folded. All right, so it won't be a social call. Ginny sighs, she knows she's too incisive, but nothing is simple. Hermione bites her thumbnail, waiting for a reprimand.

“I know you went to Square Grimmaurd before you came to Hogwarts. Ron was furious, Harry had a meltdown...”

“Nothing new. I know all this, I left after Ron reproached me for abandoning them, as usual! They had been drinking, Harry had too many potions, he started rambling as I was leaving.”

“And you didn't do anything? You didn't stay? Hermione, he was having a breakdown for Merlin's sake!”

“I know! I know he was having a breakdown, but this is Harry we're talking about, he's been having three fits a day since he killed the other asshole! What do you think, that I don't know all this? But I can't help it, Ginny, I can't fucking help it and it's not mine to deal with!”

Hermione started screaming. Merlin thank you, the bubble of silence holds. The barman gives them questioning glances. He recognized Hermione, of course. An Order of Merlin, first class doesn't go unnoticed. But it doesn't avoid sterile admonitions from long-time friends.

Well you could have called the Medicomages, or me, or...

Hermione has a joyless laugh. 

“Ginny stop it, you know as well as I do that nobody moves for them anymore!- But Ginny stops, you know as well as I do that nobody moves for them anymore! So yes at the beginning the Medics were delighted to go and pick up the Chosen One, but when he vomits on you between two flashbacks of his buddies dying, it's not funny anymore! Nobody wants to see Ron, nobody wants to see Harry, nobody wants to see me. Everybody wants to forget, move on, get married and have lots of babies. Even you!”

Ginny's jaw tightens. Decidedly, all Weasleys look alike when they're angry.

“Don't worry Hermione, I know you don't give a shit anymore. You've had your 15 minutes of fame, your pile of Gallions for services to the nation, a position at Hogwarts. What Harry, your buddy, my boyfriend, went through, it doesn't affect you anymore, does it? You liked it at first, didn't you, that he and Ron were drinking themselves to death? But when they started puking all over you too, you just gave up. It's easy, isn't it, to let it go? Comfy? Don't worry, baby, there won't be anyone to shade you now. Because after your little announcement two months ago, Harry went to Saint Mungo.”

Hermione didn't see this coming. Her mouth opened in shock.

“Yes, funny, isn't it? He had a seizure so big that Ron wanted to take him to the hospital. By Apparating. Of course, they both splinched, considering their condition. Mom forced Ron into rehab. I forced Harry to go to rehab too. Neither of them could remember what caused the seizure. Until yesterday. Harry remembered and he told me everything. This is your fault. I hope you're proud of yourself. That you did better than they did.”

Hermione cries. The bartender panicked and walked out at the first tears, of rage, from Ginny. Without saying anything, Hermione rolls up her sleeve and turns her arm. The scars have faded, but the "Mudblood" engraved by Bellatrix is still visible. Ginny knows she has gone too far but she is so angry at Hermione! For not playing her part, for not helping her. Hermione says nothing, lets her mutilated skin speak for her. She would like to say that she is sorry, but she has already said it a thousand times. Hermione can't stand the pressure, the injunction of an entire country to take care of war heroes. She too is wounded, more deeply than she lets on. It is not up to her to repair young adults as broken as she is by an unjust war. However, physical wounds attract more pity than mental damage. Hermione is somehow happy to know that her best friends are receiving the care they need. But she is bitter at the sad realization that once again it is she who is left behind.

Two hours later, the young witch stopped crying. She wanders through the gardens, cheeks red and nails gnawed to the point of blood. Her satchel hangs softly on her shoulder. After her final diatribe, Ginny is gone, still in a rage. The bartender came back with Madame Rosmerta, as worried as he was eager to gossip. Hermione had left throwing the change on the counter.  
Without realizing it, she arrived at the lake, where less than a month ago she had caught George and Angelina flirting. Tears began to flow again. Why can't she, too, be entitled to a little happiness? Machinically, she rummages in her bag in search of any container. She puts her wand on her temple, tries to stabilize her chaotic breathing…

"Hermione, stop." 

George, out of nowhere, gently grabs her wrist. He stands in front of the grieving young woman and seems genuinely concerned. The curtain of her hair hides part of his face. This is too much for Hermione. Far too much for a little witch in her early twenties, who only yearns for a little peace, real peace. She drops her wand, then herself on the sun-burned grass. George accompanies the movement so that she doesn't get hurt. Without saying anything, he draws her against him. Hermione clings to his shirt like a lifeline and cries, cries, without being able to stop.


	6. Confidences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of suicide (nothing described/graphic)

Hermione and George stay a long time near the lake. For almost an hour, he holds the ball of tears that Hermione has become against his chest. She lets herself go for the first time. Ginny's admonitions have brought out much more than expected. Little by little, the young witch calms down.

“Sorry. I'm sorry. Really, I'm... I don't know what came over me.”

“That's a pretty lie.”

George is watching the sun setting. His arms relaxed around Hermione who stiffened in front of the accusation. But she no longer has the strength to get angry, this day has been far too trying. George continues:

“I know you saw Ginny, she told me by owl. She was pretty upset! A little too much, I think.”

Her glance at the disheveled young woman, red from having cried so much, says a lot. In a weary voice, Hermione replies:

“And you couldn't tell me? That I'm getting ready? So that I wouldn't end up in this state?”

She gets out his embrace with a flick of her shoulder and looks George straight in the eye. He turns his gaze away from the setting sun to plant it right into Hermione's.

“I tried, but...”

Hermione cuts it.

“But what? Too busy levitating bricks? Drinking like crazy with the others? Making out with Angelina maybe? Unless you've got it all figured out so you can be the man of the hour afterwards?”

His usual verve isn't there, but the tone is no less biting. Surprisingly, George blushes.

“No, of course not! I just thought you didn't want to see me, that's all! When we were at the lake with Angie you spoke to me as if I was a third year caught animating the armors. I felt like I had taken a trip back in time.”

Sitting straight, Hermione plucks blades of grass. George is running his hand through his hair, more and more embarrassed.

“I am sorry. I realize I screwed up. I didn't realize you were that bad. When I got there, you were taking your memories away, right? And I thought you were the most stable of the trio...”

Hermione has a joyless laugh.

“Stable? No, I don't think that's the right qualifier. I've tried, though. To go back to school on my own, to be there for Harry, Ron, everybody. But it didn't work out. I... I didn't succeed. Ginny's mad at me and I understand. On the surface, I'm the one who lost the least in that war, the one who had the best chance of rebuilding myself. But I can't do it. I feel like I have something broken inside me, something I can't fix.”

George takes a moment before answering. He chooses his words carefully as he understands Hermione's position all too well.

“Ginny and Ron are struggling with their feelings. They are emotional and unthinking, expressing their emotions in a very raw way. It's absolutely fantastic in times of war when the shocks are what it takes to keep morale up. It's horrible afterwards because they continue to blame the whole world.”

“Because you're not angry?”

Hermione's question caught him off guard.

“No, I don't think so. Well, not anymore. At first, I was angry at everyone. At these grown-up arguments about who has pure blood and who doesn't. It seemed so childish to me! But on the other hand, it was a bit of a game too. Fred and I against the ugly Death Eaters, organizing resistance. It stopped being so with the first deaths of people who I was close to. Then with Snape as director.”

Hermione nods silently. For her too this war was blurred at the beginning. Something theoretical, reminiscent of the history books. The attack on Bill and Fleur's marriage had changed things. The first nights in fear and cold too. George followed with a lump in his throat.

“Since the battle... Since Fred... I don't feel anything anymore. It's empty. Everybody tells me that's what it's like to be tough, to become an adult. But nothing is right. I'm 22 and I just want to join my brother. Don't look at me like that, I know you've been thinking about it too. In fact, my whole family thinks it's only a matter of time before I take the plunge. They still don't realize that we are two separate people and that we can live without each other. The proof being me, here, talking to you right now.”

“Why didn't you?”

Hermione's heart is beating a little faster. The conversation is too serious for her she doesn't want to be a therapist for another person. Nor have George's suicide on her conscience.

“Because I still hope to feel something one day. I'm trying to. The day when I've exhausted everything, we'll see. Right now I have the Hogwarts reconstruction.”

“And Angelina.”

George is giving her a funny look. He is annoyed by Hermione's remark. Doesn't she understand?

“Hermione, enough with Angie. Haven't you noticed? It's not me she wants: it's Fred. I'm not the only one who's grieving. She just takes me as a way out. She's always been in love with him. He's... He's dead, but she still has his doppelganger on hand. So she takes advantage of that and I can't blame her because I use her just as much.”


	7. Warmth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: explicit sex

The revelation about Angelina shocks Hermione. No, all of George's confidences shake her. She is happy that he confided in her. But doesn't want to replace Angelina as an emotional lifeline. Even if sex can offer a pleasant diversion to the multiple troubles that fall on her. The young witch paces around her room. George walked her down the hall before leaving for his own quarters, with a slightly lighter heart. He too hadn't spoken frankly for so long. The intimacy of the moment shook them.

Crookshanks watches Hermione trying to distract herself. She waves her wand in all directions, sending spell upon spell to keep busy. The books that cover the desk flutter gently towards the library. Scrolls and quills line up in military order on the desk; cushions and blankets are carefully folded. A vicious broom spreads the dust more than it collects it. A bobby pin provokes a duel with a fork, which carries it away. Hermione finally falls down on the carpet and grumbles: 

"I'm losing it.”

The Persian cat rolls up into a ball, far from the concerns of his mistress.

George is in the same state of mind. Why did he tell all this to Hermione? What if she tells Angelina? He's far too dependent on her cheap affection. Sex with Angie isn't great but it's human warmth and he can't afford to be picky. He gets his head in his hands, lost. He can't even concentrate on his work. 

"Well, fuck it." 

George pushes aside the clutter of his desk. He finds a blank piece of parchment and starts scribbling a note. Without stopping, so as not to have the opportunity to regret, he enchants it. The paper twists into the shape of an airplane and goes off to accomplish his mission in the night.

Half an hour later, an even more disheveled than usual Hermione knocks at the door. The message surprised her but without asking any more questions, she came. George is mortified. He is already regretting this invitation for a drink. In his own home nonetheless ! He attempted to tidy up but none of his belongings were very cooperative. George lets Hermione in: they are as embarrassed as each other. Hermione tries to start a conversation.

“It's... nice place you have here.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Shall we drink? I still have some Firewhisky left. Sit where you can.”

Hermione raises an eyebrow but says nothing. She washes up on a couch in the colors of Gryffindor, which has seen better days. George rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and rummages through the cupboards in the kitchen corner. There are just two glasses left, a sure sign of destiny. In no time at all the alcohol is served. George is sitting next to Hermione as far away as the couch will allow.

“Why did you invite me? I hope it wasn't out of pity. It's after midnight we could have talked about it later.”

George is looking at the bottom of his glass and makes up his mind at the same time.  
“I had, um, something else in mind.”

Hermione looks at him attentively but says nothing. 

"Screw it."

George finishes his drink straight down and asks.

“No, it's not out of pity. I really enjoyed talking with you despite the context and I want us to get to know each other better. I know it's a bit direct, but this is the opportunity, we're both alone and...”

George stops dead in his tracks. Hermione also took down her remaining whisky and got closer. Much closer. Her hazelnut eyes look directly into George's. All rational thought is gone. After a second of hesitation, they throw themselves at each other. George's hands get tangled in Hermione's crazy curls. The young woman presses her chest against George's torso. Half lying on him, she moves her hips as the kiss intensifies.

No words are exchanged as their respective instincts take over. With burning cheeks, George passes his hands over Hermione's curves. He stops for a moment, hesitates. Doesn't he go too far, too fast? Hermione stands up and takes off her dress in the same movement. George is flabbergasted and keeps his mouth open. How beautiful she is! A blue bra supports her ample chest. Pink cotton panties leave little room for imagination.  
Hermione undressed on a whim but has no regrets. The vision of George lying down, leaning on his elbows, his mouth open in front of her makes her smile. 

"I can put my clothes back on if it bothers you", Hermione teases. 

George immediately comes to his senses. He unbuttons his shirt and attracts Hermione to him. He ravishes her lips again, so soft, so warm!

He only breaks the kiss to bring Hermione to his room. They may be in a hurry, but a bed is always better than a battered old couch. George quickly gets rid of his pants and boxers. He retrieves his wand left by the bed and casts the usual contraceptive spell. Hermione has taken off her underwear and is waiting for him on the bed. With his long red hair in front of his eyes and his erection more than apparent, George is Lust incarnate. Gently, he breaks the previous rhythm.   
She says nothing, fascinated. Only her breathing accelerates, while he delicately embraces the side of her jaw. He sprinkles with kisses her collarbones, her breasts. His hands do not remain inactive, and caress Hermione's thighs. Lips going down, hands going up. Faced with the rise of pleasure, she moans. George has only one desire, to enjoy it as long as possible. And especially not to speak, so as not to break this strange synergy.

Finally, it reaches the area where all Hermione's frustration accumulates. Changing his rhythm once again, he plays with his fingers and tongue to bring her to the brink of breaking apart. Hermione gasps in amazement, moaning louder and louder as the rhythm accelerates. It stops abruptly, leaving her trembling and on the verge of orgasm. It's his turn to raise an eyebrow at his partner's condition. Hermione attracts him to her. He allows himself to do so and falls on the mattress. She straddles him with a fluid movement and has a small laugh.

"Let me take care of you...”

George swallows violently when Hermione goes down between his thighs. He can't hold back a moan when she takes him in her mouth. He grabs the sheets, breathless. Merlin that she is gifted! Her hands caress him everywhere, her tongue turns and returns to the most sensitive point, until he goes mad.

At the very moment she stops in order to place herself back on top of him, he has to use all his willpower not to come on the spot. Hermione guides him inside her and closes her eyes with contentment. She reopens them as soon as he starts to move his hips. Both of them smile, measure the pleasure they are giving each other. Hermione bites her lips. Leaning on George's shoulders, she moves her hips in rhythm with his moves. She has a little scream, half joy, half amazement, when he squeezes her against him to change position. Now on top, George deepens his movements. With his face buried in Hermione's shoulder, he no longer tries to contain his own moans. His partner's fingernails are plowing his back, but he doesn't care. He feels Hermione's hand slipping between their bodies, feels her pleasure increase. Hermione approaches the point of no return. A little more, just a little more... She contracts abruptly, drunk with pleasure. The violence of her orgasm makes George come immediately.

They slow down, then stop completely. They separate without saying anything. Stars are dancing in Hermione's sight. George thinks he will never be able to stop smiling again. Once again, their eyes catch and do not let go.


	8. Tears

Hermione is awakened from sleep by the distinctive clacking of a cup of tea that rests in its saucer. There is too much sun for her burgeoning migraine. With a mushy mouth and crazy hair, she consents to get up. It's when she puts her foot down that Hermione realizes two things. First, she is not at home. Secondly, she is naked. Her brain is spinning furiously through the mists of her memory to find an explanation. 

"Slept well?" 

Hermione is startled. George's raspy voice brings back a flood of memories: calloused hand on the curve of her hips, moaning and many other things that make her cheeks turn red. His one-night stand partner is leaning against the door frame, dressed in a pair of boxer shorts. Embarrassed, the young witch dodges the question:

“What about you?”

“Well, not too bad, thanks to... Well, alcohol, and then... You, well, I guess we both...”

George's voice fades as the sentence progresses. He who was so sure of himself a few minutes ago loses his means against Hermione. Even in a hangover, even with a pillow mark on her cheek, she is beautiful. He doesn't know where he's going anymore, so he too dodges the question: "Do you want some tea? It's still hot. Hermione nods without saying anything and follows him into the sitting area. On the way, she picks up her clothes from the room. But what has gone through her head? George continues to babble endlessly but she doesn't listen to him. 

"Congratulations girl, you've got your head in the sand with Ginny and you're off to screw her brother, really the best decision you can make, don't change a thing! First Ron, then George! The Weasleys are not goddamn sex therapy tools! Can't you control your hormones for once in your life? "

Hermione suddenly lets out a grunt of frustration. George is cut off:

“Do you disagree with what I just said?”

“Frankly George, I didn't listen to anything. I'm really sorry about yesterday, you were just trying to be nice, I jumped on you. I... I'm going to go.”

George is leaping up. "Merlin, he's hot! "Hermione tries to look him straight in the eye and fails miserably.

“But... no! Shit, Hermione, don't leave like that, I've been trying to apologize for ten minutes. I know you're mad at me, but maybe we can talk, right?”

”Apologize?”

Hermione is lost. What is he trying to apologize for? To be nice?

“Yes, to apologize. For consoling you, listening to you, and then sending a note to get drunk. I didn't mean to take advantage of your distress, I screwed up everything. I'm sorry. I really am.”

George puts his head down and lets his long red hair cover his face. He blames himself to death.  
“But I'm the one who kissed you... I mean George, it's ridiculous! If anyone should apologize here, it's me! You're not my lifeline, I can't solve my problems with sex. I used you and I'm sorry for that. Now I'm going to go back to my apartments, sleep and forget everything that happened. I would appreciate it if you would do the same.”

His dry tone suddenly annoys George. This girl really drives him crazy! With such a savior complex, no wonder she is friends with Harry! He starts to walk around the room again, his hands waving more and more to accentuate his words.

“Stop! Stop! For once in your life, stop believing that everything is your fault! I slept with you because I wanted to and I don't regret it. Excuse the tone, but you shag pretty damn good. What I regret is the conditions under which it happened. You were drunk and I...”

Hermione cuts it, still red, but angry this time. She sat down on the couch of vice and crossed her arms in her famous imitation of Minerva.

”Oh shut up! I am not a damsel in distress. Here's your conclusion: we're both fools, but we're both consenting fools. Except that having a great shag never solved anything. We have to open our eyes: we'll never get over the war. Never. You left an ear and a brother; I left an intact arm and all hope of a normal life.”

Breathless, George stopped gesticulating at the mention of Fred. Hermione's abruptness only serves to irritate him, to make him run away, so that she has an additional reason to blame herself. He knows it for having done it more than once.

”So what do we do? We assume our status as collateral damage, we don't even try to put the pieces back together and throw everything into a Pensieve? It does seem to have worked well for you.”

It is Hermione's turn to tremble at her own contradictions. Nothing is right. The headache pounds her temples, grief grips her heart. Two mentally unsound individuals trying to support each other, what a pitiful scene! She knows that reminding George of everything he has lost is not smart, or even decent. But Hermione has finished being nice, taking care of everyone, playing mommy. She's going to send decorum to hell.

“Fuck that, right? That's it: fuck that. I won't take criticism from someone who's no better than me. I do what I want, when I want. We fucked, it was good, period. You can go back to snogging Angelina, and I can go back to throwing my whole fucking life away in vials if I want. I'm not here to spare your feelings.”

George sat down. Facing Hermione, he recognizes himself all too well. Years of playing a role, that of jester for him, of good friend top of the class for her. The seeds of despair were already there, latent. The war was only fertile ground. No need to explain it to Hermione, she won't listen to him. He's no shrink anyway. Just a one-night stand, just an increasingly distant acquaintance. He runs his hand through his hair, hesitates and then goes on:

“Very good. You wanted to leave, I won't keep you. You don't want to spare me? I don't want to either. It's not my role. You're on your own, but do it right, okay? You... You deserve to be happy. In what way, I have no fucking clue. But we're gonna cut our losses: last night was a one-time thing. I can't take it anymore.”

Hermione, cries again. George continues talking as she walks to the door.

”Hold tight Hermione. One day it will stop hurting. For both of us.”

She slams the door on the last word, leaving George half-naked in his living room. George hopes he's right; Hermione knows he's lying.

The end.


End file.
